Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [82]
Sixty-one HERE’S WHAT JANE AND MICHAEL didn’t see driving into town: fast-food restaurants, souvenir stores, even a traffic signal. This actually was paradise. They did see a couple of homemade signs advertising the tenth Nantucket Wine Festival and the thirty-fifth Figawi Boat Race. A perfect beginning to their visit. Then their cab pulled up in front of the India Street Inn. “This is what a Nantucket bed-and-breakfast should look like,” Jane said as they walked through the front door. That had been Michael’s plan: something simple and beautiful, not overdone, just pretty and fresh and right for their trip. They certainly had it down to a fine science at this place, Michael thought: red geraniums in royal blue window flower boxes, colorful geometric quilts on the wall, sleigh-riding prints in the hallways, and, of course the crusty old New England woman who ran the place. “You got a reservation? If not, we don’t have a room for you,” she said. “As in: no room at the India Street Inn.”
Sixty-two THE INNKEEPER GAVE THEM two old Schwinn bikes — nothing fancy, thick tires, rusted paint, pedal brakes, many creaking parts. She pointed them in the general direction of Siasconset, saying, “Most tourists think ’Sconset’s real pretty, and special. Because it is real pretty and special.” Jane took off first, and Michael followed along on the Milestone Road. There wasn’t much traffic — an occasional Jeep; a motorbike; a fish delivery truck; a big, vulgar, taxi-yellow Hummer — then a bunch of kids on racing bikes, moving faster than some of the cars. “Have a great honeymoon!” one of the kids shouted at them. Michael and Jane looked at each other and smiled. After four or five miles, they came upon a split-rail fence and a vista that looked amazingly like the Serengeti in Africa. Next they passed Tom Nevers Road and a grand view across cranberry bogs. Then came the Nantucket Golf Club, acres of rolling, manicured fairways and greens that actually made golf look like it might be f
Sixty-three ABOUT THAT SEX THING: It didn’t happen our first night on Nantucket, and I tried not to overthink it, and failed. Or to let it bother me at all, and failed a second time, pretty miserably. Early the next morning, we headed off to what was supposedly the highest point on the island, called Folger Hill. We even had the good sense to slather ourselves with sunblock and wear long-sleeved shirts. I was loving this, every minute of it, every second. Despite not knowing what would come next, despite all the questions I still had, I was taking my own advice and just relishing everything, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute. The ride on Polpis Road seemed long. Maybe I was just tired. Plus, it was overcast, the kind of foggy day that delayed the ferries and kept the supply boats from coming in on time. Eventually, we made it to a small harbor town called Madaket. There was a bait store, a hardware store, and a gathering spot called Smith’s Point. At about 11:30, we ate fish a
Sixty-four “I NEVER THOUGHT I would say the words I am about to say,” I said. “And those words are?” “I’m too full to eat dinner.” “Jane, we haven’t eaten anything since lunch.” “You eat, I’ll just watch,” I said, and Michael looked at me, concerned. Back at the India Street Inn, we showered and changed into jeans and T-shirts and windbreakers. Then we walked. That was us: walking and talking. We went away from the town center, away from the shops, away from worries, responsibilities, anything that had to do with the so-called real world, my job, Vivienne. We walked past three-hundred-year-old houses, where sailors and whalers once lived, where patient, faithful wives waited for their husbands to come home from the sea; houses that had stood